


hiraeth

by pastelpetals



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Childhood Friends, Childhood Trauma, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, More tags to be added, allusion to drugging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26405932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelpetals/pseuds/pastelpetals
Summary: “Such bitter partings,And sweetly dusted sorrowDry your tears, dearest,For we meet upon the morrow”— in which Bernadetta yearns and Yuri is not too far behind
Relationships: Yuris Leclair | Yuri Leclerc/Bernadetta von Varley
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	hiraeth

**Author's Note:**

> this was written on-and-off in the span of a few months, so please pardon any inconsistencies. as a disclaimer, i have not yet played the crimson flower route, though i tried to read through the wiki as extensively as i could. also, a few notable things:
> 
> \- yuri went under the name odilo when working for house varley (adopted from shanatical’s fanfic, [limerence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22796308/chapters/54477292))  
> \- bernadetta’s mom is portrayed as a more sympathetic character than canon implies

In her dreams, she sees him, brilliant and bold in both word and manner. He takes her hand, and the feeling is palpable, so unlike her night terrors where everything beneath her fingertips crumble to dust. His grip is gentle but firm, tugging her along to somewhere she cannot see. Blindly, she follows, as she always has, trusting. Wherever they go is fine, she thinks, as long as he is with her.

* * *

_“It’s a pinky-promise, right? You’ll stay?”_

_“For long as you need me to.”_

_“Hmm. Well, what if...I said f-forever?”_

_“...I guess forever wouldn’t be too bad if it was you.”_

* * *

  
“He has been relieved of his services,” her father announces curtly at mealtime one morning. Her mother shows no response to his words, quietly dabbing at the corners of her mouth. She is not quite sure what to do herself, but a part of her longs to occupy this dreary silence despite her better judgment.

“Father?” she inquires. Her voice trembles but only a bit, much to her relief.

“The assistant,” her father sneers. His words drip with disgust. “The good-for-nothing garden boy. As of today, he is no longer with us.”

A wave of nausea rises from within her. Her hands begin to shake, her fork tapping a harsh staccato against the rim of her plate. She quickly excuses herself, grateful for the conclusion of breakfast. Had she not finished her meal, there was no doubt she would have been ordered to remain and force down the rest, else face discipline for lack of decorum; therein would lie another punishment for her lagging schedule. She can practically hear the threat ringing in her ears.

The first sob catches in her throat the moment she rounds the banister of the grand staircase. Tears have yet to come, thankfully, and the attendants know better than to interfere, though this does not mitigate the pitying looks thrown her way. She despises the weight their gazes hold, how her shoulders can hardly bear it, pressing her inwards until she is folded into herself. Her fists come to rest over her heart, as if to protect it from caving.

A fragile thing, come the whispers. Weak in the head. Poor little Bernadetta.

Whether her cheeks burn from shame or sorrow, she knows not, but the reason does nothing to prevent the cries that wrack her bodily. She ends up collapsed at the foot of her bed, weeping for a boy that is well beyond her reach.

* * *

_“We’ve already given you plenty of time, son. How much longer do you need?”_

_“It’ll be done soon. The girl is as good as dead.”_

* * *

They lie together in the untamed meadow beyond the fields, partially obscured by trimmed hedges. Flowers dance in her periphery, and she exhales, comfortable in a way that has never been familiar to her. Wild thrushes chirp overhead, their notes soft and piercing.

“Odilo,” she calls timidly. “Um, not that I’m not glad to be here, but... _why_ are we here?”

Odilo turns to her, his lavender locks falling in a way that is unfair to her heart. He chuckles, a rumble akin to the purr of a particularly contented cat, and flicks her gently on the nose. It is the sun that warms her, she tells herself.

“If I may be frank, Bernie-bear,” he says, a strained, satisfied quality to his voice as he stretches, “you need to get outside more. You’re like a ghost in the estate, creeping around as you do.”

“I-I do not  _creep_!” Bernadetta protests, affronted. An indignant blush tinges her ears. “And I do go outside! Look!”

Plunging her hand into a secret pocket that she had clumsily sewn at the hem of her dress, she fishes out a sheaf of folded papers and thrusts it at him. With a raised eyebrow, Odilo patiently leafs through them, his expression softening as he goes. Scattered across the quality parchment are sketches of varying subjects, some simplistic in their cross-hatching and some more elaborate with hints of color: birds captured mid-flight, their wings graceful, sweeping arches; diagrams of numerous flora, painstaking in their detail and attention; squirrels and frogs galore, ranging from tall to plump and everything in between.

From what he can see, the creases are prominent enough to indicate how often these papers were pulled out for a quick jot of inspiration. He smiles, ready to rescind his words when he happens to spy an extra page behind the last. As he brings it closer for inspection, his eyes widen to saucers, seeing that the figure before him is very, very familiar.

“Is this...me?” he asks, partly incredulous and mostly concerned because the moment he turns to her, he has never seen her so red. She stares back at him, wide-eyed, and a sound fills the space between them, evocative of a whistling kettle.

Bernadetta extends her palm, eerily poised. Odilo uneasily complies after ensuring all the papers are in order. She looks as if she is about to flee — or faint — so he quickly blurts the first thing that comes to mind, a rarity in of itself.

“You, uh, draw great.”

The whistling culminates to a screeching halt as a more literal sort of screeching takes off in the direction of the estate.

Odilo remains frozen, alone, blinking the sunlight away. Amused, he quietly hauls himself to his feet, careful to not muss the portrait in his pocket. Years later, with an older face and another name, he will often return to it, a reminder that he cannot afford failure.

* * *

  
_“Is that supposed to be you, Yuri-bird?”_

_“Yeah, an old friend drew it for me when we were kids.”_

_“Huh. Explains your flat nose.”_

_“Thank you for your insightful commentary, Hapi.”_

* * *

Bernadetta is six when her father first lays a hand on her.

Her mother is summoned to Enbarr on business for a month. On the day of her departure, her eyes are uncharacteristically tender, a warmness that gentles the stiffness of her demeanor, the crispness of her clothes. There is an underlying emotion that Bernadetta has yet to learn, but for the first time, her mother gathers her into an embrace and presses a kiss into her hair.

“Be good, little bear,” she whispers, so soft it is almost missed. Bernadetta clings to her earnestly then, desperate to understand the wrongness that lingers in the air.  _Take me with you_ , she wants to beg.  _Don’t leave me here. Don’t leave me alone._

“Mama,” she sobs instead, despite her age, despite that it has been years since she had addressed her mother as such.

All she receives in response is a trembling breath and another kiss, this time to her forehead. It takes three servants to pry them apart, Bernadetta screaming and reaching all the while. The coachman ushers her mother away, but Bernadetta has never forgotten the helpless expression on her face.

That night, her father leaves her bound to a chair with swollen cheeks and a handkerchief in her mouth.

* * *

_Bernadetta,_

_I have no right to say this, but please be safe. That’s all I ask._

_Yours,_

_Odilo_

* * *

A demure young woman stares back at her. Her lips are painted deep scarlet, a vivid slash against her pale complexion, and the sides of her face are lightly dusted in a complementary shade of cerise. When she blinks and smiles tentatively, her combed eyelashes curl delicately against the crest of her cheeks. Bright eyes, made brighter by quiet alarm, scan her evening gown, pristine and billowing.

In short, the maiden peering through the mirror is not herself, and Bernadetta wants nothing more than to be rid of this itchy, feeble facade. 

One of the older attendants, noticing her discomfort, pats her arm consolingly. “You look wonderful, dear,” she says, eyes crinkled and kind. Her hands are gentle in her hair, twisting and weaving plaits that meld into a chignon. “There’s no need to fret.”

Bernadetta returns her smile weakly, though it does not stop her own hands from gripping at the delicate fabric. She reminds herself that it is only one night where she is expected to dance, converse, and dine with more than two utensils. Only one night, she repeats with each brushstroke and hairpin, a mantra that steadily accompanies her through the rest of the preparations. Once she is finished, there is barely a pause to breathe before she is quickly ushered out into the waiting carriage.

Her father runs his gaze over her, appraising. It sends an unpleasant prickle down her spine, even when he grunts to signal his approval. She meekly seats herself beside her mother, who has her eyes trained on the window. There is a sort of charged tension between her parents, the silence stifling as it was wont to be, something that Bernadetta is keen to leave unacknowledged. After all these years, she knows better than to get caught in the crossfire. Still, she sneaks a glance at her mother, inching their hands together until the latter closes her cold fingers over Bernadetta’s searching ones.

The count raps on the ceiling twice, prompting the carriage into motion.

A few minutes into the ride, Count Varley leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. He briefly glances at his wife before clearing his throat, a sound Bernadetta has recognized as demand for attention. Her head snaps forward, her grip inadvertently tightening.

“Remember, daughter, that you are representing House Varley tonight,” he says, perfunctory and polite in the way he speaks to guests. “You remember your training, yes?”

She blanches, words from the last session still searing.  _Heed my words, girl. If you cannot fulfill even the simplest tasks, you are worth more to me dead than alive._ The bruises from then have long since faded, but she can still feel the phantom burn of ropes, chafing deeper with every movement. If not for the healer’s deft magic, her wrists would have remained tumid.

“O-Of course, F-Father,” she whispers.

He settles back against the velvet plush and studies her. “Well, see to it that you prove your words. Remember that I will be watching, as will all the other nobility.”

“I-I understand.” A fresh wave of nerves overcomes her, and suddenly she is too _aware_ of everything, from the loose strands that whisper against her nape to the beginnings of a blister under her left heel. She can barely tamp down the lump in her throat.

“My lord husband,” her mother interjects coolly. Her gaze is especially cutting when she raises an eyebrow. “That will be enough, lest you overwhelm her before the night begins.”

Her father looks appropriately cowed. He coughs, fiddles with his cufflinks, and tries in earnest not to turn purple as he looks at anything but them. Bernadetta has never been more grateful to her mother, especially when the remainder of the journey is carried without further fuss.

When they arrive at the Imperial Palace, the portcullis of the main châtelet is already drawn, and within the castle walls, carriages make their way over the drawbridge to the castle itself, where esteemed guests are escorted into the great hall. Braziers flicker by the entryway, both for visibility and warmth against the growing dark. Inside, a rondo from the minstrel’s gallery drifts overhead, mellow notes lulling company into murmured pleasantries and conversation.

Thankfully, Bernadetta manages to alight with her hair intact and gown only slightly mussed. The stewards are quick to remove any creases and dust from her skirts before guiding her to where the other young nobles are congregated over drinks. She is handed a flute of amber liquid with a sweet-smelling note, abruptly alone in a throng of unfamiliar faces and inquisitive whispers.

“That’s her, isn’t it? The Varley girl.”

“Goodness, but she is a tiny thing.”

The only factor preventing her from fleeing is father’s oppressing stare from across the room, somehow heavier than all the eyes directed her way. Not for the first time, she wishes desperately for Odilo’s presence. He would have known what to say, both to the crowd and to her.

She quickly scurries to the closest corner, keeping her back against the wall, her gaze downcast as she sips lightly. The drink itself is surprisingly unsaturated with alcohol, the aftertaste a pleasing hint of floral. It helps steady her bearings, a pleasant warmth filling her cheeks, only to lose it when the first waltz begins to swell. Around her, couples form and head toward the dance floor, their glasses abandoned on tables.

_Get with the program, Bernie_ , she reminds herself, but this was something beyond her control. She could hardly envision anyone escorting her, of all people, to dance. Despite this, the night was young, and there were more opportunities to come. Surely her father would not mind her absence this once. She remains in her little nook, tempted to throw back the rest of her drink like she had seen him do numerous times. As she observes the dancers, amidst the flowering skirts and flapping coattails, there are two in particular that stand out.

With his copper hair and dazzling smile, the young man is like a beacon through the sea of people, warm and lively. He is impeccable with his steps and timing, the picture of a gentleman as he extends his arm to receive his twirling partner. The young woman is similarly graceful, her movements dainty and precise, as are the brief smiles she directs at the older noblesse. Her flourishes are subtle but enough to keep their performance captivating. She, too, is radiant, cheeks aglow.

_There is no getting lost in their own world, when instead, they make the world their own._ Bernadetta watches them wistfully, wishing she had paper and ink to capture the moment.

The music fades, and the dancers bow before retreating. To her horror, the boy catches her eye and starts in her direction. He is dapper in his silk suit, his cravat obviously meant to be the centerpiece of his ensemble, but he is no less intimidating.

“Well met, Lady Bernadetta! Pardon the intrusion, but you looked in dire need of a raconteur. Allow me to introduce myself, for you are standing before none other than Ferdinand von Aegir!” the boy declares, bowing at the waist.

Bernadetta blinks at him as he straightens. As far as she could tell, there was no mocking in his words, his apricot eyes earnest. He exuded an air of calm that was more comforting than haughty, and his grin seemed to solidify it. However, his glass was already half-drained compared to hers, leading her to wonder if this charisma was liquid courage or something entirely his own.

“I am pleased to see you about this fine evening,” he continues, still beaming. “An evening that is fit for Her Highness’s celebration, do you not agree?”

“Oh, never mind him,” a different voice interrupts. Lovely in her lavender gown — with its svelte corset and waterfall bustle, the latest in court fashion — the girl approaches them, feathered fan in hand. “If given the opportunity, he will ramble on and on until he can gloat over his self-proclaimed rivalry with the princess.”

“Constance,” Ferdinand nearly whines. Bernadetta feels a smile forming at how petulant he looks. “Surely you recognize the importance of the Prime Minister! It is a mantle I shall bear one day, and it will be my duty to guide Her Highness to even greater heights!”

“Yes, yes, no need to tell me, dear Ferdinand,” Constance sighs, albeit fondly. “I have heard the same song and dance for as long as we have known each other...which is to say, far too long.”

While the two banter, Bernadetta cannot help but think back to her days in the manor with Odilo. He, like Constance, often took the role of instigator, poking and prodding in ways that made her pout and protest in turn. He rarely pushed too far, but when he did, he never failed to apologize in his own way, be it a single flower tucked in her books or permission to paint his face as she liked. She missed those quiet evenings by the dovecotes, soft chirping permeating the air as she took great care in coloring his eyelids, his cheeks. In those moments, her hands never wavered, and she wanted to think that she proved herself to him, that she had her own strength, however quiet it may be.

She watches Constance reassure a disgruntled Ferdinand and wonders if she and Odilo would have gotten along.

“Oh, do forgive me, Lady Bernadetta,” the older girl gasps, a hand over her heart. “I tend to prattle on at times. I simply must introduce myself formally. Constance of House Nuvelle, the pleasure is mine.”

“O-Oh, um, it’s an honor...to make both of your acquaintances,” she ekes out, curtsying. Her father’s gaze has long left her, as have all the others, opting to direct his attention to the maids and the wine accompanying them. Still, the looming threat of training keeps her rigid. She does not know where her mother has gone.

“How wonderful this is!” Ferdinand exclaims, back to his sprightly self. “We have established such a rapport with one another!”

“I hope we may bend your ear for a bit longer, Lady Bernadetta,” Constance continues, her eyes twinkling from behind her fan. “You are quite the listener, I’ll have you know. Spades better than our future Prime Minister.”

“Partake in your drink, madame,” Ferdinand mutters into his own flute.

Constance brightens at that. Her fan begins to flutter anew. “That’s right! Dear Bernadetta! Have you heard of how House Nuvelle is responsible for the very champagne we and our peers are indulging in? Rather than fruits, flowers were utilized in the mulling process to achieve such a fragrant outcome! A revolutionary tactic, indeed!”

The evening continues on in all manner of revelry, though for Bernadetta, it is found in the enthusiasm of her company. She even dances at Constance’s behest, though she feels more like she can barely contend with her partner’s fervor. Ferdinand is more patient with her fumbling footwork and harried apologies, but his booming laughter draws more attention than she is comfortable with. They wind down with another glass and round of conversation. Constance holds them to the promise of writing one another once the festivities were over.

Throughout all this, Bernadetta can feel herself glowing, lit by genuine enjoyment.

A few hours later, the doors atop the grand staircase opens, Lady Edelgard herself emerging fresh-faced. From what Bernadetta can see, the princess’s smile is barely that, hairline fissures cracking through her powdered appearance. It cannot conceal how exhausted she looks or how small she is next to her frail father. Behind her is a moving shadow with eyes that could pierce through the entire crowd.

“A toast to my beloved daughter,” the Emperor croaks, his voice brittle. He sounds like reeds by a pond, whistling in the wind. “A toast to Edelgard, who shines like the sun at dawn.”

Something inside Bernadetta clenches, for reasons she cannot fathom. There is a sense of pointedness in all this, that much she knows, but who it is meant for is another matter. She raises her cup, mouth numb, but does not drink.

* * *

_“You must be very fond of this friend, Yuri.”_

_“I— Yeah. She means a lot to me.”_

_“Oh? Do tell.”_

_“It’s not what you think, Constance. There’s no story of star-crossed lovers here. Sorry to disappoint.”_

* * *

In the end, there are no letters.

Her father intercepts her attempts at correspondence, forcing her to watch as the candlelight that once illuminated her pen-strokes lick away at her words. No words or blows are exchanged, but his stare, devoid of recognition and emotion, unnerves her. Only cinders remain when his footsteps recede into the hallway, and Bernadetta realizes — with a start — that he had been looking  through her, as if she no longer existed.

She closes her box of quills and parchments and does not try again.

Instead, she writes in her journal the tale of a young girl blessed by the goddess with humble hearth but richened heart. She is left wanting for nothing as she spends her days in a quaint cottage in the heart of the woods, perfecting her craft. And yet, she dreams of the world beyond her forest, beyond her guardian oaks and singing rivers. One day, she stumbles across an injured hunter whilst foraging. The parts of him unmarred by blood is handsome, she notes, as she dresses his wounds by the fire. When he fully recovers with her aid, he promises her the world. His lilac eyes are soft when he offers his hand.

Her pen stills.

It is her turn to look at nothing as she latches the book shut. For a minute, she considers casting it into actual fire. There is no good from clinging to the past, she knows, but there is also no worth striding into a barren future, especially not with her father at the helm. She thinks of Constance and Ferdinand with a pang. True to their word, they had written her here and there, unbothered by her lack of response, but as they became increasingly preoccupied with their own duties, once a month became once a year. Even so, she was quick to burn them after reading, lest her father do it himself.

The topics themselves were nothing treacherous, merely inquiries of wellbeing and daily happenings, but her parents appeared to be on heightened alert for the longest time. Some of the more notable dukes in court became frequent visitors, shutting themselves away in the drawing room for odd hours at a time. Gone were the pretenses of gracious reception and amicable exchanges, replaced with fervent mutters and clipped footsteps that the servants mirrored as they went about their tasks. Marriage, everyone seemed to whisper. The daughter to be sold off, like cattle.

These days, when Bernadetta visits with her mother, she notices the new lines that crease her face, the shadows that pool beneath her red-rimmed eyes and sallow cheeks. Still, her poise is firm and decisive as she works. Like her daughter, she spends most of her waking hours shut in her office, stamping and signing all the while. On the occasion that Bernadetta brings her tea, her shoulders cant ever so slightly, her glasses discarded from its perpetual perch on her nose.

In these private moments, her touches are softer when she asks how her daughter is doing. They talk of embroidery and plants, poetry and sketching. Her mother once mentions Ferdinand and Constance, but when their names garner a tiny shake, the matter is not pressed further. There is a deliberate effort to never acknowledge her father.

One particular day, when she is sixteen, her mother reaches out to take the teacup from her. “Indulge me a bit, Bernadetta,” she says and motions for her to come closer. Bernadetta complies, no longer as hesitant as before, and gasps when she finds her face cradled, a similar pair of slate-grey eyes piercing into her own.

“You’ve grown, little bear,” the older woman murmurs. She chuckles, a wistful sound that causes Bernadetta to hiccup and grasp onto her mother’s sleeves. She can barely remember the last time she was called that. “And yet I wonder how I could have missed it.”

“M-Mother?” The room swims, and her breaths come quicker. Black laps at her vision, but she can feel the familiar motion of fingers smoothing her hair. The tang of Albinean Berry sours on her tongue.

“Forgive this weak woman, Bernadetta, for not being the mother you deserved.” Her hands withdraw, and Bernadetta soon finds her vision enveloped in darkness. She whimpers, once again six years old, once again reaching.

“This is my means of atonement. I hope you will not begrudge me for this.”

Incapacitated as she is, she lacks the wherewithal to understand that it is the last time she will see her mother for many years to come.

* * *

_“Hey, Boss. Got a quick question for ya.”_

_“Still dogging after my Crest origins, eh, Balthus?”_

_“Nah, nothing like that. You mentioned your ma last time, and I thought why not swap some stories from our time as rascals?”_

_“Heh, sounds like my idea of fun. How about over a meal? My treat, friend.”_

* * *

They stand in front of Captain Jeralt’s grave, her and the Professor, the latter trailing her fingers over the inscription hewn into the cold stone. Bits of rock still cling to his name, fresh from the chisel, and the dates are nearly concealed under the amount of bouquets and trinkets laid atop the turned earth. The most recent addition was the bundle of floral sprigs that Bernadetta had herself gathered around the monastery, offshoots that had tapered from trees and clippings neglected after weekly prunings in the greenhouse. It was quite humble, compared to the flowers swaddled prettily in their vibrant papers and patterned ribbons, but the expression on Byleth’s face, so fragile and grateful all at once, warmed her.

It was worth it, she tells herself, all those hours outside of her room and occasionally past curfew. It was worth the way Byleth softened after days of stoic nodding and terse smiles, gracefully accepting the condolences of students and staff. Bernadetta recalls the Professor descending the third floor with a furrow between her brows, and though she wonders out of concern, she understands it is not her place to ask.

Clouds roll in from the west, the nighttime not far behind, but the Professor makes no move to leave. “You need not stay with me, Bernadetta.” Her voice is hoarse, either from disuse or weeping. Stare affixed ahead, she kneels and begins to organize the offerings. “You should go inside.”

Her feet instinctively retreat at such a dismissal, but Bernadetta swallows, stops, and inquires in a quivering voice, “D-Do you want to be alone right now, Professor?”

Byleth, for all that she is unflappable and impassive, is still human to a degree. “I couldn’t ask that of you,” she murmurs, and the way her voice  _breaks_ — it breaks Bernadetta’s heart, too.

“I...I’ll stay,” she whispers, twisting her skirt nervously. “I want to, i-if you’ll let me.”

For a moment, her teacher pauses but acquiesces with a subtle nod. They go about in a silence that is heavy but not uncomfortable, sorting the motley of flowers, the carved animals, the ornamental swords, the icons of Seiros. Aside from the instruction to ensure all candles are snuffed, Byleth takes to the task with impressive single-mindedness, inspiring no conversation. Bernadetta does not mind; she cannot find anything to say, in the end. They work until there is nothing left to do, nothing left to adjust or situate, nothing left in the sky but glittering stars and a vapid moon.

“Bernadetta,” Byleth says suddenly, her eyes never straying from the tombstone. Her inflection is back to its near monotone. “Forgive me if this is too personal of a topic, but tell me: is it strange to yearn strongly for the mundane? I have never found myself truly wanting, but now... What I desire most is to hear my father say my name again. I’ve forgotten when he said it last.”

All breath leaves Bernadetta as her eyes flicker from her Professor to the side. Like a dam being dislodged, words that once escaped her arrive in a steady rush, surging so fiercely that she finds herself almost brought under. She thinks of her uncle, his jovial laughter and bright eyes when he gifted her the armored bear stuffy that currently rested atop her dorm bed, worn by time and affection. She thinks of her first friend, his kind chiding and gentle hands, the portrait of him that she could never find after all these years. There were nights where she had cried, alone and afraid of how they were morphing in her mind, from human to figment, from whole to pieces. Now, she can no longer recall her uncle’s voice, and Odilo’s lullabies are nothing more than rhymes with half-lapsed melodies. She feels guilt more than anything, some days.

“I don’t think it’s strange to want that,” she says softly. Perhaps it is the encroaching lateness or the drawing of shadows that emboldens her, but she has never felt such a sense of surety. “I-I mean, you want to hold onto whatever you can, right? Otherwise, you’ll lose that part of them. O-Or at least, it’ll be harder to get back.”

“You speak from experience,” Byleth remarks, quiet and considering.

Bernadetta bites her lip and steels her courage, the way she does before battle.

“I-I miss my uncle,” she blurts, breathless. She is never ready to talk about Odilo, not when she killed him, not when the loss is still a gaping maw all these years  _because_ she killed him, however inadvertently. Still, the words she speaks is no less true than the familiar ache that gnaws at her heart. “There’s always a-a part of me that would give anything to see him again. He’s the only one in my family who’s ever been really kind to me, ever been patient with me. We never did talk much when we met up, but we didn’t need to. We just understood each other. It was nice.”

The smell of bergamot while the tea brewed perpetually in the sitting room. Ivy twining amidst the treillage lined at the side of the manor. Muted conversations rising between the balusters of the stairs. A gentle mare dappled with white and brown, nosing curiously at a proffered apple. Crockery clicking in the bustle of the kitchen. Books and drawings alike scattered across the elegant, oaken study. An indistinct murmur and her own childish laughter. Bernadetta wonders why she remembers the things she does, these fragments that could never fall seamlessly together but still remain cohesive in their singular entirety.

Odilo is much the same; whenever she tries to piece him together, nothing seems to fit quite right. His eyes are the wrong shade, his hair too short, his smile too jagged. She always stops when his features become nothing more than meaningless noise. Even his dialogue is no longer his own, utterly warped into something else.  _How could you do this, Bernie?_ this Odilo will plead with her, hurt and despondent. _How could you leave me behind? I thought we were friends._

At times, the meadow overflows with wildflowers, and in others, every corner is scorched black. There is no one waiting for her. The thrushes are consistently silent, the air deathly still. She has forgotten their birdsong.

As the years pass, the errors grow more glaring as her attempts grow less frequent, but what frightens her the most is her increasing acceptance, the inevitability that he will one day vanish completely.

_I'm sorry, I'm trying_ , but she knows it will never be enough. It feels like she is losing him all over again.

A tentative touch startles her out of her thoughts, and all she registers are the fingers that graze her damp cheeks.

“You’re crying,” Byleth tells her, a faint crease at her brows. “My apologies, Bernadetta. I should not have overstepped my boundaries.”

“That’s not—“ It mortifies her how quickly her voice has turned wet. “P-Professor, that’s not what...”

Something in Byleth softens once more as her palm comes to rest on her pupil’s head. “Thank you for confiding in me again. More than that, I cannot begin to express how much it means to me, Bernadetta, that you were able to stow your fears and be here. I’m sure my father is appreciative as well.”

Bernadetta’s tears fall again; yet in the frigid night air, the Professor’s hand remains warm.

* * *

_Bernadetta,_

_Is your old man still kicking? Because if so, I’d like to personally visit and give him a kick myself. When you’re as deep in the rumor mill as I am, you start hearing things that nobles will literally kill to keep under wraps. Especially the higher-ups._

_All those things that he did to you. I need to know if they’re true. I need to know you’re alive._

_Yours,_

_Yuri_

* * *

She first glimpses him during tea time with Dorothea. Unfortunately, it happens when she is mid-sip, causing her to sputter and nearly drop her teacup. The songstress across the table rushes to her assistance and lightly thumps her back, concerned.

He is among a small group, two females and one other male, strolling alongside Professor Byleth, who is motioning towards the various amenities on campus. His hands are locked behind his head, elbows jutted outward like gangling wings, and the gesture is so achingly  _familiar_ that her breath catches. His gaze, too, is reminiscent of the cool, flickering expression that Odilo always wore while he worked. Even the hair color and irises were too similar to be a coincidence. 

_Let’s be calm, Bernie,_ her mind screams. _Maybe it’s just a wig. Maybe he wanted to go for a different look today!_

“Bern? Bernadetta!” Dorothea calls, somewhere far away. She can barely feel the hand on her shoulder, the world shifting beneath her feet until it is too late. His eyes —  _lilac_ — meet hers for the briefest moment before everything turns dark.

**Author's Note:**

> i know how i am with multi-chaptered fics but i promise that i have at least a good quarter of the second chapter of this fic written out. i won’t be leaving this fic incomplete.
> 
> about shrinking violet, i’m very sorry. i just can’t seem to write it in a way i can be satisfied with. i’ll come back to it one day, but for now, this fic takes precedence.
> 
> on another note, i hope everyone was fairly in character, particularly the ashen wolves! they’ll have a fair bit of interacting next chapter; they’re just so much fun to write! thank you very much for reading!!


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